A/N: Marie Ward: Great to see you back, Marie! Only two people have reviewed, so I can't thank you enough. Hope you enjoy this chapter--I wrote it just for you and Peridot.
Peridot3783: Haha...thanks! The pace really picks up in this chapter and---with luck---I'll be able to create some suspense. I can't tell you how relieved I am that you relieved: you were the first first reviewer. At any rate, 'Truth or Dare' doesn't seem to be off to a very good start.
Disclaimer: No, I still don't own Trigun
—two years later—
Sand. It yawned onward toward the horizon, the normally white-gold grains dyed red in the glow of the sunset. The wind stirred the dust, nudging it lazily, eddying over the dead, barren wasteland of sand. Dust devils purled half-heartedly, chased by the desert breeze, scattering against the red limestone with a solid, scritchy sound. The sky was an exotic shade of heather, darkening toward blue in the east. East, where the crowns of the opaline moons were edging over the skyline.
A zephyr ruffled Vash's hair, passed across his cheek like a feathery kiss. The air was redolent of cacti blossoms and dew, just chilly enough to make Vash draw his thin cotton shirt tighter around him. The gunman drummed his fingers against the arm of the teak rocking chair, his gaze lost in the desert landscape.
He shifted his weight, the old wood of the chair groaning beneath him. Vash slipped one calloused hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded note. The paper was old and yellowing, stained with water. There were deep crease lines in the sheet from months of being folded, unfolded, and refolded; the furrows were fraying and one edge had a small tear. Vash dutifully unfolded it, smoothing the sheet on his knee. His eyes roved over the corona typewriter script, though he had already memorized what it said:
Vash,
Milly and I have left for December. I wanted to say thanks for everything. Whatever else you may be—a droopy-eyed, donut-scarfing, skirt-chasing hog-in-heat—you're a friend. I wouldn't trade my times as a 'disaster investigator' for anything.
I need to leave this life behind, though. Maybe this is the only was to forget everything—Wolfwood, Knives, Legato...you. I don't want to remember anymore. I'm sorry.
Please keep our secret between just us. I hope you'll forever think of me as
Your Friend,
Meryl Stryfe
The letter was dated a year and a half ago. Vash read the paper again, hoping it would make more sense, hoping he could glean more information from it. Sighing in frustration, Vash folded the note and returned it to his pocket. He began to rock slowly, listening to the creak of the chair, the scraunch of the runner against the stone porch. The wind picked up speed, whistling through the canyons and ridges of the desert. There was a decidedly bitter bite to it as the breeze nipped through his hair, chilling him to the bone.
He stood and walked to the door, fingers curling around the iron door handle. Then he hesitated. What he needed was a shot of bourbon—to fight the chill of the desert night; to chase away the familiar, hollow ache in his chest. Vash turned away from the door and stepped off the porch, jamming his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. He walked quickly through the near-empty street and toward the nearest tavern, rolling his shoulders to work out the knots in his muscles.
At first, Vash arrowed straight past the pub, so intent on putting one foot in front of the other that he overshot the bar altogether. He backtracked, pushing past the swinging doors to the familiar sights and smells of Mac Callum's Pub. The cloying scent of smoke was thick in the air, and it hung like a fog over the dusky bar. Mac Callum's Pub was a decent place, Vash decided. The tiled floor—though old—was clean and swept. The glasses were mismatched, some with chips or hairline cracks, but never were they smudged or dirty. The counter was neatly washed; never sticky. Instead of taking a seat in the wicker chairs lined up by the bar, Vash wandered to the walls.
Mac had decorated the plain walls with framed newspaper clippings, photos, and old advertisements. Vash had never paid attention to them before; now he paused, looking at an aging photo of a little girl in an oversize cowboy hat and a sunflower dress, her neatly braided hair flung over her shoulders: Mac's daughter. The next document was a clipping from an old newspaper that read in screaming, 72-point font "THE HUMANOID TYPHOON STRIKES AGAIN." Vash quickly moved past it, his eyes settling on a crayon drawing done in a child's hand of a house with a tree and what looked like a thomas. He meandered around the room sometimes pausing for five and six minutes, sometimes passing the display without a glance. Finally he seated himself in a dim, smoke-filmed corner of the bar.
"The usual?" grunted the bartender brusquely.
"Yeah," said Vash. A radio was playing on a shelf—some sort of acoustic single. There was a low hum of conversation from the pub's frequenters, the clink of glasses and the sharp clacking of pool balls hitting together.
The bartender set a shot in front of the gunman, pouring out whiskey. Vash topped the drink off and thunked it down on the counter, licking his lips.
"So, have you heard the rumors?" The bartender asked languorously, pouring another shot of bourbon. Vash frowned.
"Rumors?" Vash asked distractedly, closing a hand around the shot. Pace yourself, he chided mentally.
The bartender leaned across the counter, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Folks are saying there are demons here in Byrnes."
Vash snorted. "Demons only exist in the hearts of men."
"What I heard," said the bartender defensively. "I hear there are men around..." He hesitated, casting around for the right words. "They just...aren't right somehow. Men who couldn't be men—who could only be demons."
"That right?"
The bartender grunted, then raised his voice. "Isn't that right, Rene?" Vash followed the bartender's stare to a haggard man sitting a few seats down. He was a tall, young man, but he seemed small as he hunched over his drink. Dark hair fell limply over his pale, sweating brow. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, like he hadn't slept in awhile and his hangdog features gave the impression that he was sulking. His clothes were hung too loosely on his scarecrow-like frame, rumpled and disheveled. Altogether, he looked more like a corpse than a man.
Rene tossed a glance at them; his rheumy eyes seemed to pass straight through Vash. "What's that?" He asked in a hollow voice, made husky by cigarettes.
"Tell 'em about them men—those demon-men."
Something sharpened in Rene's hazy eyes. His brooding features tightened into a grimace. "They aren't men," he said, taking a drag from a cigarette. He waited, closing his eyes as he blew out smoke. "They've sold their souls to Satan." The man stubbed out the fag in an ashtray.
Vash didn't know how to respond, so he raised the glass to his lips and tossed it back, squirming as the alcohol burned its way down his gullet. He breathed in deeply; the air smelled of tobacco and whiskey, under-laced with the faint unpleasant odor of sweat
Vash rotated the now-empty glass broodingly. He hadn't come to the tavern for a conversation; he just wanted a drink, for God's sake. What he didn't want was a conversation with some half-baked guy who probably hadn't been sober for years.
He raised his hand for the bartender, but the man's back was turned. Just as Vash opened his mouth to call for him, a high, bloodcurdling scream issued from the street. Sudden, tense silence descended on the pub. The conversations petered out until the only sound was the hushed music from the radio that drifted through the heavy air.
The scream picked up again, a low gibbering wail that echoed throughout the gulches and flumes that pockmarked Gunsmoke. Vash couldn't make out the words: they were ragged and imprecise. The wail degenerated into a low, keening sob.
Vash slid off the barstool and fairly flew out the door, barely registering when it banged shut behind him. His head whipped left, then right. He paused, waiting a beat, then raced left down the street. Houselights were beginning to flicker on and citizens were appearing in the windows.
Vash ran without thinking toward the sharp, piercing cry. But the sound reverberated in the streets until it seemed to come from every direction. Vash skidded to a halt, disoriented, waiting for the shriek to pick up again. An unnerving quiet fell over the little town. Vash waited, muscles tensed. His ears were thrumming with blood and he could feel adrenaline pumping through his veins. Silence, then: "Oh, God, oh God! Please, no...NO! There was...blood. Everywhere, there was blood! And now he won't wake up...he...won't wake...up..."
Vash was near enough to pick out the words. They were difficult to hear; the voice was pitched high with fear and interrupted by sobs. He raced down the labyrinthine streets that honeycombed throughout Byrnes, following the disembodied scream.
Glancing around wildly, he descried a white-clad figure. The figure stumbled as if in shock, then recovered. Something dark and thick stained the light-coloured clothing. Even from a distance, it was easy to identify the wet stain as blood.
Vash's lungs were beginning to ache from the cool, damp air and he slowed to a walk. A group had started to gather around the figure, buzzing with curiosity. Vash slipped through the crowd, and squeezed into the front, watching breathlessly as the sheriff walked forward, buckling his utility belt and rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"You're going to have calm down and tell me what happened, miss," he said in a soft, patronizing voice, like a parent humoring an unreasonable child.
"He's dead..." whispered the white-clad figure—a small, wiry girl. The girl raised a quivering hand and wiped the sweat from her forehead, smearing blood on her face.
"Who is? Who's dead?"
"I don't know," the girl said, her voice wavering hysterically. "I don't know his name."
"What's your name?" The sheriff continued in the same soothing, condescending voice. He was trying to calm her nerves, Vash realized. Good luck with that, he thought wryly. The girl was shaken pretty badly.
The girl's white lips moved noiselessly.
"Pardon?" Asked the sheriff, edging forward.
"J-Joan," the girl stammered. "My name is Joan."
"Joan," said the Sheriff to himself. "Can you tell me what happened, Joan?"
The girl's eyes widened, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "I found him—dead. There was blood everywhere." Her voice quavered. "He was dead—I found him like that!" Joan's voice was rising in terror, and the sheriff reached out to touch her arm.
"Get away from me!" Cried the girl, knocking his arm away. She took an unsteady step backward. "There was blood everywhere," she repeated, her voice cracking. "And then that word..." She closed her eyes, a grimace set on her wraithlike face.
"What word?" Asked the sheriff, unable to follow.
Vash had to strain to catch her next words; her voice was quiet, but she said them harshly enough to make up for it. "It was written in red on the wall."
"Joan," the sheriff began in a reasonable voice.
"I'm not crazy: I saw it!" Joan screamed. "It said 'Knives'."
Vash felt his blood go cold. The sheriff was talking, but he couldn't seem to focus on what he was saying. 'Knives'...Vash steadied himself against a building. He felt an burning in his lungs and realized that he was holding his breath. Blowing air out his cheeks, the gunman sat down hard on the packed-dirt road.
He'd been a fool to think that Knives would reform. After two years, Vash had finally begun to relax, to let his guard down. He thought he'd won the war: foolish. He could see now that Knives would never reform. "Why?" Vash said in a strained whisper, staring at his hands. "Why, Knives?" He repeated, his sight blurring as tears stung his eyes. He cradled his head in his arms, moaning softly.
He could hear the broken cries of Joan as she was led away by the sheriff. The rubberneckers slowly dwindled; they left in clumps, talking with their neighbors in low, rapid voices, strung with excitement. Finally, only Vash was left, still crumpled in the shadows of the building.
"It's those men," he heard a low, husky voice say in his ear. Vash looked up, bewildered.
Rene was standing with his hands tucked into his pockets, watching the scene unfold. Vash looked more closely at him, wondering who, exactly, this guy was. Everything about him hinted at melancholy, from the way his shoulders sloped dejectedly to his lidded eyes. "Those demon-men did this." He seemed to be talking to himself.
Something sparked in Vash's mind—a funny coincidence. The Gung-ho Guns had called themselves demons, hadn't they? Men who had allowed demons to take over.
He lurched to his feet and grabbed Rene's arm. Rene turned his bloodshot eyes on Vash, blinking calmly. "These men," Vash said. "How do I find them?"
"You don't," said the man softly.
Vash gripped his arm tighter. "Please!" He begged. "I need to find them!"
Moonlight made Rene's white skin glow pale blue as he regarded Vash with his hollow, dark-ringed eyes. "Don't worry," he said. "We're looking for you."
Vash's head jerked back as though he'd been slapped. "What?" Goosebumps pricked his skin, and he wondered if he'd heard right. 'We'?
Rene looked outward; the sky had deepened into black; the moons were waxing in the sky. Scattered, steel-coloured clouds drifted lazily, haloed in the moonlight. The wind was blowing stronger now, cold and bitter. It whipped up the sand, and the grains stung Vash's face and arms, working their way through his clothes.
"Oh, we've been searching for you, Vash," Rene said again. The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Us demon-men. Us Gung-ho Guns."
Vash was frozen in shock. His mind was screaming at him to draw his gun, but he couldn't seem to move—he could only shake his head disbelievingly.
"No!" Vash shouted. "The Gun-ho Guns are dead," he whispered, cold sweat materializing on his brow.
"Not anymore," Rene said quietly.
There was a pause; neither spoke.
"'Truth or Dare'?" Asked Rene, breaking the silence first.
"What?" Whispered Vash.
Rene returned his gaze to Vash, his flat, dead eyes passing straight through the gunman. "'Truth or dare?" He repeated.
"I'm not playing a game," Vash cried, whisking his gun from its holster and aiming it steadily at Rene's heart.
"But you are." Rene's lifeless eyes gleamed briefly.
"I won't!" Vash choked out, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"The rules are simple. You can pick either 'truth' or 'dare'."
"I won't play." Vash repeated.
"That's your choice. Of course there will be consequences."
A cold finger traced its way up Vash's spine.
"That's right, Vash. You can refuse to answer the question; you can refuse to do the dare. But just like the child's game you'll have to face the 'consequences'." He smiled wistfully. "That's the beauty of the game. You have a choice. What'll it be, Vash? Truth? Or dare?"
"What if I shoot you?"
"Then you'll have to face the consequences."
Vash could barely force out his next words. "What are the consequences?"
"We will kill someone close to you each time you refuse to play. It could be anyone—Doc, Jessica...Meryl." Something akin to amusement flickered across his features.
Vash felt hot tears coursing down his cheek. Truth? Or dare? He couldn't choose truth. He couldn't allow Knives to know his deepest fears and secrets; he couldn't let his twin inside his head. "Dare," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"The city of Byrnes is six hours away by car. Somewhere in Byrnes is a young woman. Her name is Taylor Kathan. In twelve hours, we will kill her. Stop us if you can..."
Rene turned on his heel, the tails of his loose shirt flapping behind him like a cape. Vash watched the Gung-ho Gun walk away, a sinking feeling settling in his gut. He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, Rene's words echoing in his mind. "Stop us if you can..."